---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Asteroid” Down in the Dirt (v142) (the February 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Study in Black the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 418 page Jan.-April 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Negative Space (the 2017 poetry, flash fiction & art collection anthology)		get the 298 page poem, flash fiction & art collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book the Light in the Sky the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2017 collection book		get the 418 page May-August 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Butterfinger or Not to Butterfinger?

Joseph Sheldon

    Upon a flawless, white china platter sat a lonely unwrapped Butterfinger, it glistened underneath the dining room chandelier. Jonathon paced beside his possible dessert with a longing in his heart. One nibble wouldn’t hurt, he thought to himself.
    Unlike Jonathon, the Butterfinger was stationary and could not articulate its feelings of hatred directly towards his captor. All the Butterfinger could do was wait. It could wait until the very end when Jonathon would decide whether it would be eaten for its hardened peanut butter center and rich chocolate layer or tossed aside like an unwanted pizza crust. For now, the bar waited.
    “Oh Butterfinger,” Jonathon started, “why do you tempt me with your delicious mass? Can you not see that I am on a diet?” He slammed his hands on the table causing a ripple of force to rattle silverware set for another meal. His eyes crossed from his continual struggle. Had his wife not told him to wait until after dinner to have anything sweet, the man’s plump fingers would be sticky and covered with the remains of his enemy.
    If he ate the Butterfinger at all, there would be consequences. He would suffer the wrath of his wife; a temper no force of nature could match in destruction. On top of her incessant nagging, Jonathon would be forced to run laps around the mansion to burn off the extra calories.
    “Did my wife put you up to this?” the giant shoved his index finger into the platter in an attempt to bully the defenseless bar.
    Still, the bar gave not a single yelp. It was a truly noble Butterfinger, for this particular Butterfinger had not a single finger laid upon it from conception. He would not cave into his enemy’s demands so easily.
    Jonathon grabbed a rustic butter knife from the table and swung his trusty blade toward his delicious foe. “You’re a trick! I’m not afraid of you!”
    As Jonathon’s knife broke the chocolaty skin, his fingers let go. He pushed the knife away and held his face. “I can’t,” he sobbed, “I can’t do it. If my wife finds out. She’ll-”
    From down the hall, his wife could be heard saying, “Jonathon, if that Butterfinger is nudged even a little bit, you will run laps and sleep on the couch.”
    The goliath darted away from his trap as a fox would if caught in a hen house. He adjusted his sleeves, straightened his collared shirt, and tried to position himself in a less incriminating pose.
    Jonathon’s wife, Elaine, marched into the room inspecting her disheveled husband. Under the pressure, he would crack, but she didn’t expect to get the honest truth from him. She reached for his hand to check for chocolate marks. Clean. Her nose caught a whiff of sweat and the musk of cologne she had chosen. Clean. Smelly, but clean.
    Finally, she marched away. Jonathon took a moment to sigh. His life would not be ended just yet. Little did he notice his wife inspecting the bar in question.
    Elaine had begun to search for more fingerprints, melted edges, anything that would acquit her buffoon of a husband. She was about to give up and return happily to a faithful partner, until the chocolate bar screamed out the light she was searching for. With an exasperated gasp, she turned and smacked the face of a guilty man.
    “What did I tell you? No sweets!” She yelled.
    Jonathon whimpered quietly. If he defied her, the consequences would only be worse.
    Her umber eyes bored into him. She pointed out the evidence before her, a lowly scratch cut into the side of her bait, and began to berate Jonathon with just her gaze. When he tried to speak, she interrupted him, “What did I say?”
    “No sweets,” he said.
    “Say it again.”
    “No sweets.”
    “Why do I see a scratch on that Butterfinger?” she asked.
    He shuffled nervously where he stood. How could a woman this small have so much control over him? He was portly, a gentle giant. His Butterfinger prey was his to eat. “Because- I want it,” he replied.
    She took a second glance towards the plate. “You laid a finger on that Butterfinger and now I’m going to lay a finger on you,” she said. “Go, five laps. You’re sleeping on the basement couch tonight.”
    Jonathon looked at her. His facade did not last much longer as his wife would not fold to a his pouting lips and watery eyes. He sauntered off to the front door and glanced back at his wife. Elaine stood before him with a slight frown.
    “Jonathon,” she said with a slight sigh, “I’m sorry, but we have to look after you dear. Your diabetes needs to be under control.”
    “I know.”
    “I don’t want to see you in that wheelchair again,” Elaine said. She moved to him, wrapping her arms around his chest. “Please. I’ll help you through this.”
    Jonathon sighed and returned the hug. He really needed to stop eating snacks. He had to stop for her sake.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...